Free False Allegations by Andrew Vachss

it was a sure bet the kid would break atoms and break hearts. Someday, he’ll walk around the finest college campus, and he’ll have lots of friends. He’ll look just like them too. Except for his eyes.
    Michelle was done with her journey. It wouldn’t be long before Terry started his. If that bothered the Mole, he kept it to himself. But Michelle was digging her talons in as deep as any mom who raised him from the cradle, knowing it was coming, holding tight against it anyway.
    “I need the phone,” I told the kid.
    He just nodded his head, acknowledging the respect I paid him by asking.
    I went down the carved–earth steps to the bunker, moving past the machinery, the microscopes, the computers until I got to the phone. It was a blue–box loop job— the signal went into the 800 circuit and came back up, ready to dial, impossible to trace. I didn’t know how it worked, but I knew it did. I lit a cigarette, thinking. The Mole tried to explain the filtration system he had set up down there once. I never understood that one either, but it worked perfect. The Mole put it together so he wouldn’t kill himself with the fumes from his experiments— the bunker always smelled like an operating theater.
    I held Kite’s business card in my hand. Noticed for the first time that it flickered in the light. I turned it slightly, looking close. Some kind of pattern punched into the vellum— blind embossing, they call it, kind of like braille. I traced it with my fingers. Something was under the engraving, but I couldn’t bring it up. I tried one of the Mole’s examining lamps for a couple of minutes before I saw it: a kid’s kite, slightly puffed out against the lifting breeze, a long tail dangling.
    The number was a Manhattan exchange. Easy to tell now— all the other boroughs are 718. I tapped it out on the keypad, listening to the long series of beeps as the signal went out and looped back around. Then it started to ring. Once, twice, three times, then…
    “Good morning,” a woman’s rich, husky voice.
    “I’d like to speak to Kite,” I said, my own voice as neutral as a heart monitor.
    “May I tell Mr. Kite who’s calling?”
    “Burke.”
    “Could you hold just a minute, please?”
    She didn’t wait for a response before switching the line to hold.
    “Thank you for calling,” a man said suddenly. His voice was thin but strong. Titanium wire.
    “What do you want?” I asked him, done with the ceremony.
    “To talk. Face to face. I have an offer to make. For your services. Your professional services. The offer is complicated. I wouldn’t feel comfortable making it on the phone.”
    “I’m retired,” I told him.
    “Yes,” he replied, like he knew what I meant and it made sense to him. “But not retired from listening , I’m sure. That’s all I want, for you to listen. I know your time is valuable. And I’m prepared to compensate you for any inconvenience involved. But I did go to considerable trouble— “
    “That wasn’t neces— “
    “Actually, I believe it was, Mr. Burke. And I’m prepared to go to much more trouble if I must. May I have the opportunity to explain?”
    It was a perfect threat, skillfully delivered. He could find me if he had to…and he sure as hell knew where to look.
    And he knew about Michelle.
    “Sure,” I said, like he was being too reasonable to refuse. “How do you want to do it?”
    “Completely at your convenience, as I said. I can come to you, you can come here…whatever you say.”
    Telling me he knew where to find me? Mama’s? The building where I live with Pansy? Max’s dojo?
    “I’ll come to you,” I told him.
    “Would tomorrow be acceptable?” he asked. “Anytime after three…?”
    “Four.”
    “Four it is. I appreciate this very much, Mr. Burke. I look forward to seeing you then.”
    He gave me the address and hung up.
     
     
    F or some reason I didn’t quite understand but still trusted— maybe some tiny tug at the tip of the